


The Cantina Incident

by draculard



Series: What Happens in the Outer Rim... [1]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Chewie makes a good wingman, Exasperated Gilad Pellaeon, Han Solo is a tall guy, M/M, Pellaeon less so, Takes place slightly before Heir to the Empire, Thrawn has a thing for tall guys, Thrawn is a slut but it's for Military Reasons so it's okay, Top Han Solo, What happens in the Outer Rim stays in the Outer Rim, bottom Thrawn, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24620047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: “I managed to extract the datacard from his belt while he was ... preoccupied,” said Thrawn delicately. “Luckily the mouse droid I engineered prior to our visit was more than capable of making a copy during the forty-minute period of our, ah…”“Discussion,” Pellaeon reminded him.It was possible Grand Admiral Thrawn blushed faintly as he nodded. “Yes. Thank you. Our discussion.”
Relationships: Han Solo/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo
Series: What Happens in the Outer Rim... [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901695
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	The Cantina Incident

“Rwoorwoorroow,” Chewie said, nodding to the far corner of the cantina.

Surreptitiously, Han took a look, waiting a few seconds to make sure he wasn’t too obvious about it. “Watching _me_?” he said, scanning the inhabitants of the far corner. “You sure?”

Chewie made a short, scandalized noise that translated to, _Not ‘watching’ you. ‘Eyeing’ you._

The distinction was more important in Shyriiwook than Basic. Han perked up a little at the correction, suddenly much more interested. Either he was being eyed for a fight or he was being eyed for a fling, and either way he wanted to know whose eyes were doing the eyeing. 

“What kind of alien?” he asked Chewie out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Wrroogwraarw,” Chewie said. Han absorbed the information with the barest hint of a nod. Blue skin, sitting next to a human. He eliminated a few Duros from the lineup, but there was no one else in the vicinity with blue skin — or green, if you allowed for Chewie’s slight carelessness with colors. He was about to say so when suddenly he spotted the target, so deeply hidden in the shadows that Han could barely make him out.

And oh, wow. He knew what kind of ‘eyeing’ he hoped it was. Casually, Han turned back to Chewie, never allowing his gaze to linger on the stranger.

“Not anyone I’ve crossed, is it?” he asked under his breath.

Chewie gargled in the negative. 

“Didn’t think so,” Han said. “Never seen anyone who looked like that. You think he’s half-human, maybe? Some sort of human-Twi’lek mix?”

Chewie gave a doubtful moan. 

“Well, they don’t all have lekku,” Han admonished him. “Some of them are just kind of green, or a little bit blue, or—”

“Roworrowrro?”

“Yeah,” Han conceded reluctantly. “Yeah, I’ve never seen any with red eyes before.” He shot another quick look at the alien, drinking him in. High cheekbones, obviously very fit — Han could tell from here — with a sort of regal confidence settling around the line of his shoulders. Blue-black hair was pushed back from his forehead in a leonine sweep, showcasing the hard planes of his face and the glittering red glow of his eyes.

Eyes that were suddenly looking right back at Han.

“Oops,” Han muttered, whipping his head away. He buried his face in a mug of Forvian ale, gesturing expressively at Chewie. Hopefully, it would look like his gaze had simply wandered in the middle of a conversation, but he wasn’t betting on it. He’d been staring a little too obviously for that.

“Okay, Chewie,” he said behind the mug, not daring to look at the alien again. “Is he still watching?”

“Rrrawra,” Chewie said.

Damn. 

“Well, what’s the status?” asked Han. “What kind of eyeing are we looking at here? Good eyeing or bad eyeing?”

Underneath the table, Chewie curled one of his enormous paws into a fist and gave Han a thumbs-up.

“ _Good_ eyeing?” Han confirmed, scarcely able to believe his luck. “What about that human he’s with? You don’t think—?”

Chewie gargled out a dismissive laugh. His paw came down on Han’s back with a breath-stealing impact, wordlessly commanding him to go for it. Han took another moment to steel himself — and another sip of Forvian ale — and then stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand in a move he rather optimistically believed to be charmingly rugged.

The alien’s eyes were on him blatantly now, watching with simmering delight as Han swaggered across the cantina to his dim corner on the other side. The other patrons paid no notice, moving silently out of Han’s way when he got too close, leaving him an open path to the alien. It was only when Han actually reached the alien’s table that he got a good look at the other man with him, a human man somewhere in his seventies, with a droopy silver mustache and a suspiciously thick head of hair. Han spared him a cursory glance, then turned to the alien with his crooked thousand-watt smile plastered firmly in place.

“Hey,” he said, praying this would work. 

Unbelievably, the regal-looking alien seemed almost visibly to melt, earning an eye-roll and a sarcastic mutter from the human next to him.

“Shall I leave you two alone, then?” asked the human, disgust and exasperation evident in his voice. The alien dismissed him with a careless wave of the hand, eyes fixed firmly on Han. He didn’t look away even as his companion planted both hands on the table and hauled himself to his feet, leaving with a shake of his head. 

“You’re new here,” the alien said. His voice was cultured, sounding almost like a Core Worlder. Obviously not his real accent, but an impressive fake. Han raised an eyebrow at him.

“And you’re not?” he asked. 

Smiling, the alien gestured for Han to take a seat.

“Solo,” Han said, offering his hand. The alien took it, his touch too gentle to qualify as a shake, sending the blood rushing to Han’s cheeks.

There was a beat of silence before the alien answered, giving Han a faint smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. “Thrawn,” he said. 

Not his real name, Han guessed. The hesitation was barely noticeable, but Han had enough experience to know what it meant. It was tricky with aliens — sometimes they hesitated because their real names were too difficult to pronounce and they had to think of an alternative — but in a place like this, no one ever gave their real names.

Well, except for him, apparently. He grimaced at the realization, comforted at least by the thought that this Thrawn guy wouldn’t know either way.

“So,” he said, easing into the seat right next to Thrawn. Their thighs bumped under the table, the alien radiating warmth. “What brings you to this fine establishment? Business? Pleasure?”

Thrawn leaned forward on the table, turning slightly to open himself up to Han — and if that wasn’t encouraging body language, Han didn’t know what was. “Imperial conquest,” Thrawn said, his eyes glittering. “Of course.”

Han barked out a laugh. “Sexy _and_ a sense of humor,” he said. That faint smile touched Thrawn’s lips again, offering him an edge of mystique that Han definitely liked. “Keep your secrets, then,” Han said, waving his hand dismissively. “And I’ll keep mine.”

“You’re a smuggler,” said Thrawn, his voice pitched low — flirtatious, not accusatory. “Anyone can tell that.”

Han blinked, drawing back a little. “Oh, yeah?”

The smile grew a little wider. “Oh, yes. Look at you.” Thrawn’s red eyes roved up and down Han’s body, lingering first on his tightly-clad thighs and then, more subtly, on the blaster hidden beneath his vest. 

It wasn’t entirely pleasant, Han reflected, to be in a cantina like this with a stranger, especially when the stranger knew your real name and purpose here and you didn’t know his. But somehow, right now, it didn’t really bother him. He met Thrawn’s eyes with an easy smile, leaning down a little bit so that they were level — and had the immense pleasure of seeing Thrawn realize how tall Han was. Realize … and appreciate.

It wasn’t like Thrawn was short, either — he had to be about two meters tall himself — but maybe that was why he was looking at Han like that, visibly drinking in his physique like some people would a work of art. Maybe it wasn’t often that he met somebody taller than him, especially somebody in an anonymous Outer Rim cantina, especially somebody who returned his gaze with a smile and approached his table with confidence and ease.

It was a bit of a new experience for Han, as well. He’d left his drink at Chewie’s table, so without breaking eye contact, he reached forward and grabbed Thrawn’s mug instead. The other man didn’t look away, but his lips twitched, the smile coming back along with a hint of challenge in his eyes.

When Han drank from his mug, Thrawn licked his lips, never looking away.

“It’s too loud in here,” he said smoothly, with easy dignity, when Han swallowed. 

“You think?” asked Han, raising an eyebrow.

“I do,” said Thrawn. His strange red eyes flicked down, lingering for just a moment on Han’s lips before he looked back up and favored Han with a confident smile. “I have a freighter outside,” he offered with a coy shrug of his shoulder. “It’s not much, but it offers some …”

 _Privacy,_ Han mouthed.

“Peace and quiet,” Thrawn said. They looked at each other for a long moment, each of them half-smiling, each examining the other. Very deliberately, Han didn’t look back at Chewie, who was undoubtedly watching the whole thing.

“Always been a big fan of peace and quiet,” Han said.

* * *

_It’s not much_ was a bit generous when it came to Thrawn’s ship. It was a battered old A-class bulk freighter that made the Falcon look like an Imperial Star Destroyer. It was about as rusted as most of the junkyard scrap still hanging about from the Clone Wars, with a chipped paint job curling up from the underside — impossible to tell now what it was once supposed to represent.

Any other day, maybe Han would have asked some questions — “Where the hell did you get this piece of trash?” chief among them. But the moment they stepped through the hangar — before the doors had even closed behind them with a pneumatic hiss — Thrawn’s hands were on his lapels, holding him still while the alien leaned in close and captured Han’s lips in a kiss.

That moment — that particular body language, not pulling Han but bringing himself closer instead, almost submissively — told Han all he needed to know. He broke the kiss with a smile, his hands finding Thrawn’s wrists, his fingers tightening in an iron grip.

Thrawn wanted him to lead. Well, Han could lead, alright.

He deepened the kiss without warning, pushing Thrawn back until his shoulders hit the shuttle wall, bringing him closer to Han at the same time. With their chests touching — with his hands slipping from Thrawn’s wrists to his narrow waist — Han took Thrawn’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down gently until blood rushed to the surface. 

Heat radiated off of Thrawn, warming Han even through their clothes, setting his nerves on fire. He trailed kisses along Thrawn’s jaw and down his neck to the high collar of his tunic, ripping it open with his teeth. Pinned between Han and the wall, Thrawn seemed to melt once again, his spine arching as he willingly bared his neck.

Han found the alien’s pulse point easily enough — in the exact same location as his own — and bit at it gently, laving the spot with his tongue. The sound of Thrawn’s high, almost inaudible gasps for breath had him fully hard by the time he finished, his cock straining at the front of his pants. Against his thigh, he could feel Thrawn’s cock pressing into him, too, his thighs parted already as if anticipating Han’s next move.

“Bed?” Han growled, burying his face in the crook of Thrawn’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Thrawn breathed. His right hand came up, grasping Han’s forearm weakly, guiding him to the side. Through a haze of need, Han saw the surprisingly spacious cot built into the wall, only dimly registering another one just like it off to the side. He grabbed Thrawn by the waist again, lifting him away from the wall with another low growl — and a gasp of unmistakable delight from Thrawn, who seemed almost to stagger when Han set him back down again, pushing him toward the bed.

It was a matter of only seconds to get each other’s clothes off, Thrawn’s hands making short work of Han’s smuggler’s belt and trousers, Han’s hands scrabbling at Thrawn’s tunic front and practically ripping the sealing strip as he went. Inch by inch, Thrawn’s chiseled chest and abdomen revealed themselves, every plane of his body hard with muscle. Han ran his hands over Thrawn’s pecs, his thumbs brushing the dark blue nipples before coming to rest on what appeared to be a blaster scar.

“Damn,” Han breathed, running the edge of his thumbnail along the paler skin where Thrawn had been shot. “Now, how the hell did you—”

Then Thrawn was leaning up to meet him, his lips soft and needy against Han’s, his hand coming up to rest in the tangle of overgrown hair at the back of Han’s neck. Pulling him down on top of him, urging him on. And who was Han to argue? He felt Thrawn’s hands on his trousers, those strong, capable hands brushing the outline of his cock, teasing him deliberately as he worked the fly. 

Impatiently, Han grabbed Thrawn’s hands and forced him back onto the mattress, pinning his arms above his head. Thrawn’s eyes sparked, his mouth set — determined, eager. Just as impatient to get on with it as Han was, but still enjoying the ride. With a half-smile, Han pulled his trousers down the rest of the way, spreading Thrawn’s bare legs beneath him.

He was leaning over Thrawn, their faces close together, Thrawn’s arms still pinned above his head when Han thought to ask, “Do you need—?”

“Just hurry,” Thrawn said, his hips rocking against Han’s. The head of his cock was wet with precum unlike anything Han had ever seen before, so wet that it seemed more than sufficient for their needs. He held Thrawn’s wrists with one hand, grasping his cock with the other and stroking up and down the length of it. It felt like warm iron in his hand, but he’d scarcely had time to enjoy it before he caught sight of the look on Thrawn’s face.

Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted, his chin angled up to the sky. Eager. Needy.

His hips bucked again, reminding Han that he had better things to do than sit and gawk. His hand slick with precum, Han grabbed his own cock, spreading the lubricant over his entire length. He leaned forward again, lining up with Thrawn’s entrance easily, as naturally as piloting his first ship. 

Shaking with desire, with anticipation, Han paused only for a moment, just to reach up and gently rest his palm against Thrawn’s cheek.

And then, with no further warning, he thrust in. 

It was overwhelming — tight and warm and better than anything Han had ever experienced, so good that he nearly came right there and then. He held it together through pure willpower, his entire body trembling as he oriented himself, took a deep breath, forced himself to hold on. Beneath him, Thrawn shifted position, arching his spine and angling his hips up to give Han deeper access. His eyes were closed, his hips moving with an artless grace, like he didn’t even notice what he was doing.

He knew _exactly_ what he was doing, Han was willing to bet. He’d lost hold of Thrawn’s wrists sometime in the past few seconds, so overwhelmed that he’d pulled away to support himself on the mattress instead. Now, Thrawn brought his own hands up to trace over Han’s chest, his fingers trembling subtly as he did. 

He rocked his hips again and all Han’s self-control went out the window.

He pulled back, thrusting into Thrawn as hard as he could — then back again, pulling almost all the way out before slamming his hips forward, making the bed rock beneath them. Wordless gasps spilled from Thrawn’s lips, surprisingly loud, helpless moans filling the shuttle. He felt Thrawn’s fingers curl into fists, his nails scraping against the sensitive skin on Han’s chest, watched Thrawn’s lips twist into a grimace of pleasure and pain.

Han was nearing his own climax when Thrawn came, suddenly and without touching himself, pearlescent white fluid shooting up over both their chests and reaching Thrawn’s throat. Han had no choice but to follow — simply couldn’t hold back after seeing that — and for a moment his vision whited out, filling his body with singing pleasure and his ears with absolute static, like there was nothing else in the world but this. Just the two of them.

Lying there, his cock softening inside of Thrawn, listening to the harsh breaths coming from both of them, Han’s only coherent thought was this:

_Thank God for Outer Rim cantinas._

* * *

“ _Not_ my preferred method of dealing with the Rebellion, sir,” said Pellaeon, the distaste thick in his voice. Looking tousled and thoroughly kissed — thoroughly _smug_ , more like it — Thrawn took a seat in the pilot’s chair. 

“We completed the mission,” he said airily. “That’s all that matters.”

Briefly, Pellaeon longed for the old days when after-action reports were still routed through High Command for approval. If this was how Thrawn handled things, it was no wonder he’d been unofficially exiled to the Unknown Regions so early in his career. He eyed the other man speculatively, noting the button missing from Thrawn’s collar. 

“How did you fare with the Wookiee?” Thrawn asked, perhaps attempting to distract Pellaeon from what he’d seen.

“Well, I didn’t _bed_ him, sir, if that’s what you mean,” said Pellaeon with a huff. He pretended not to see the faint smile on Thrawn’s lips. “And I didn’t get much information out of him, either. Not very talkative, that one.”

“Nor was mine,” said Thrawn.

He didn’t seem displeased about it, Pellaeon noted sourly. 

“However,” said Thrawn, “I _was_ able to extract some useful information while he was distracted. Check beneath your seat, please.”

Grimacing, Pellaeon reached beneath the torn leather seat of their burner freighter, a nasty piece of junk Thrawn always kept in the ISD’s hangar bay for undercover work. He felt around blindly on the freighter's grimy floor until his hand closed around something small and thin.

A datacard.

“Of course, that’s not the original,” said Thrawn, glancing sideways at the card in Pellaeon’s palm. “I managed to extract the original from his belt while he was—” Pellaeon definitely caught the hesitation. “—preoccupied with our discussion,” said Thrawn delicately. “Luckily the mouse droid I engineered prior to our visit was more than capable of making a copy during the forty-minute period of our, ah…”

“Discussion,” Pellaeon reminded him.

It was possible Grand Admiral Thrawn blushed faintly as he nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

With a sigh, Pellaeon popped the datacard into his datapad, breezing through the encryption codes easily enough with a bit of decoding software they’d picked up from a slicer on Dantooine. Within moments, the New Republic’s shipping routes were laid out before him in neat, well-organized starmaps, with dotted lines showing where Captain Solo had already been and solid red lines showing where he still planned to go. 

Never let it be said that Grand Admiral Thrawn put out for nothing, Pellaeon supposed. 


End file.
